If it were just a little colder
by thenopetrain
Summary: Dave has some flashbacks about Emily. Set towards the end of "Lauren". The summary is vague because I didn't want to spoil anything for anyone who has yet to see the episode! rated T for language


**Something has run away with my muse, and amid my constant search for the culprit, I've decided to compensate for my lack of updating my other stories by doing a string of song fics and/or one-shots of pretty much anything. (if you have any ideas let me know!) **

**This first one was stuck in my head ever since I heard the song and oh my goodness it just wouldn't go away! So here it is, I hope you like it, considering it was a bit cathartic for me. The song is called "Beautiful Day For Goodbye" by George Strait. And this is centered during "Lauren". This is basically a piece about Rossi remembering Emily throughout the funeral. **

**Disclaimer: **I claim no rights to the hit, CBS crime series Criminal Minds. CBS cares /\

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><p>"<em>If death meant just leaving the stage long enough to change costume and come back as a new character...Would you slow down? Or speed up?" -<em>_Chuck Palahnuik_

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><p><em>Isn't it like her to look so pretty<br>Like everything is alright  
>Like nobody cried all last night<br>Look at the sun, oh how it's shinin'  
>Almost a picture perfect day<br>Like nobody's goin' away_

Their truck pulls up behind the hearse and he thinks the day should not be so sunny, that it should be dark, dismal, and as _miserable_ as they all are. It's a garish light that makes him squint, pronouncing the deep furrow between his eyebrows and the exhaustion which mimics that of the other five agents. He gives the man in the driver's seat a forlorn look, empty but more passive than he's been in a long time.

He's not surprised by the steeled stoicism that meets his gaze. He wonders if he should say something, if he should prepare them for the moment they've been dreading the entire ride over from the church. He glances into the backseat, and the others watch him with varied expressions ranging from morose to devastated. It's then that he realizes no amount of wisdom can ease their suffering today.

_Today, tomorrow, next week? _Sighing, he opens the door, wondering how long this gaping hole in their family will take to heal. Loathing the sun as it reaches its bright rays like raking fingers into his sockets, he shoves on his sunglasses. A headache starts to throb behind his eyes, and he doesn't know if it's the result of not sleeping or last night's raid on his liquor cabinet or the fact that he just hadn't had the energy to feed himself much over the last few days. There's a horribly familiar task at hand that he's not sure he's up for.

Had it been the other way around, had it been her having to put on a strong face, she would have done it in a heartbeat. So he shrugs one on as Morgan, Hotch, and Reid join him, gathering around the back of the hearse that carries the shell of a woman they loved so much. A flash of blonde hair beyond the hood of the car catches his eye and he sees JJ walking towards them, instantly replacing the shoulder Garcia needs in Morgan's absence.

The dark wood of her coffin is too obvious for the weather, too dour, too contrasted, and for the second time he wishes a cloud would cover up the gaudy yellow which fills the graveyard. He imagines she'd be heartbroken to see them all so lost, but maybe a little proud that she was loved this much. _Maybe if I'd told her before all this…_ he knew now wasn't the time for 'what-ifs' or 'I should-have's', but he couldn't stop himself. Picking up one of the handles on the casket, he falls into his own thoughts, wondering how many times he's been a pallbearer.

_There was the one time…_ How morbid is that train of thought, which rises a slight, ironic smile to his lips as he stares at the ground; walking onward towards her spot among the stones.

_If it were just a little colder  
>She might need me to hold her<em>

The day was the exact opposite of this one. A cold, bitter wind whipped wearily through the burial plots, both vacant and full, to make its way among the rather large group of people gathered on such a gloomy morning.

She hadn't exactly invited him along, but when he'd asked and received nothing but silence on the other end of the phone there was no doubt in both their minds that he would show up. So he'd met her in the back of the church, her black coat still snugged around her as if she couldn't exactly ward off the chill. They'd sat there throughout the entire service, their shoulders touching lightly. The slight comfort seemed enough to keep her poised. After the service, he'd refused to leave her side.

"I just need a minute." She'd said in that sad, troubled voice. The same voice she'd used when answering Hotch the night John had told her about Matthew.

As Emily walked up the center aisle towards the open casket at the altar, Mrs. Benton had moved to stop her. Rossi, gracefully acting as a bumper for Mrs. Benton's wrath, interrupted by making his condolences long enough for Emily to say her goodbyes and escape to the truck.

"You okay?" He'd asked, sliding into the driver's side of the SUV.

"No." Scoffing, she offers him an almost painful smile, sarcasm still trying to tint her voice despite everything. After a moment, she turned away to look out the window as snow began to fall again.

A little while later they stood, side by side, as Matthew was lowered into the ground. Emily cried silent tears, a few actually escaping her eyes and dragging wet lines down her, now cold-kissed, cheeks. People filtered away from the scene, placed flowers in the grave, on the coffin, poured dirt down the hole. She didn't move, almost like a statue did she stay until they were the only ones left. Even Mr. and Mrs. Benton, who'd cast heated looks their way, looks that _accused_ Emily for their son's death, had left before them. _I swear to all that's holy, if they blame her one more time…_ Rossi wanted to give them a piece of his mind right then and there, wanted to tell them that maybe if they'd really paid attention, if they hadn't let their faith decide their judgment blindly, then they'd still have a son.

"It's like…they didn't even love him." The disgust was evident in her voice, stricken as it was, as she stared at the men filling her best friend's grave with cold, frozen soil. Her frustration was almost palpable; stuck in the atmosphere around them. Mrs. Benton hadn't cried like one would think a mother should, and Mr. Benton, apart from the immense guilt you could see on his face, had simply stared off into space the entire time the priest committed the body to the earth. There was no wailing, no crying out for injustice. "It's just…it's not fair."

Rossi's heart had to have cracked when he met her watery eyes. _Why else had his chest clenched so tightly?_ He felt her shiver the moment he'd wrapped his arms around her, protecting her from the elements that reddened her cheeks and nose, from the memories of Matthew, from the memories of John Cooley (who was, thank God, still in the hospital), from the Bentons and their accusatory looks, and from the world's unforgiving nature. He was safe-guarding her iron will, her ability to keep it together, and her steadfast courage.

She didn't sob like one would picture in a graveyard scene. No, she'd simply buried her face in his coat, in his chest, and clung to him tightly, accepting the quiet peace he was offering her. She could have stayed for hours in the bubble of safety and trust he'd created, but her phone started ringing. They pulled apart as she shrugged a hand into her pocket to retrieve the device and gave him a wayward frown.

"Hi Jayje, yeah the funerals over. No, no, it's alright. What's up?" There was a pause, a few seconds lapsing as the wind and snow seemed to pick up in intensity. "Okay, I'll be right in." She ended the call and looked at him, an almost disappointed light in her dark eyes.

"A case?" Dave asked, thinking the time couldn't possibly be worse.

"What else?" Emily gave a sharp, bitter laugh and started to walk towards the truck. A moment later his own phone started to ring and he glanced down, giving Emily a look when she'd turned back to wait for him.

"Hey JJ. We got a case?"

_There's not a cloud in the sky  
>It ain't rainin' or snowin'<br>there's no cold wind blowin'  
>It's a beautiful day for goodbye<em>

He snaps out of it when the priest begins to speak. Ashley's standing in front of him and even though he offers her a sad smile, there's little comfort in her presence. He knows she stood in front of him for a reason. Initially shell-shocked to find that her mentor was actually dead, Ashley had quickly composed herself just as he had lost it. The instant those words had left JJ's mouth, he'd come undone inside; like a piece of him had been violently torn away. He didn't remember the last time he'd cried the way he had in that waiting room.

Dave had crumbled under his reserve and sat there a broken man trying to cover up the quiver in his lip by burying his fist into his chin. Ashley had finally grabbed his other hand, which had taken hold of the arm of his chair in a vice, angry grip. He knew she hated how sad he was. _You're her hero, Dave, invincible._ She looked up to him, that was obvious, and he liked the fact that she was more daughter than fellow agent. But right now he wanted to be left alone. He didn't want to be seen in mourning, or asked about his feelings.

He didn't want to keep telling people he was fine because he wasn't and they knew it. Just like Morgan, Garcia, Reid, JJ, Hotch and Ashley weren't _fine_. He's one of the last to grab a rose as he takes his place behind Morgan and next to Hotch. For a while no one moved, no seemed to _breath,_ until JJ stepped forward. He watched her place the rose quickly, but gently on the coffin. His team moved around him, except for Hotch, who'd moved to stand behind him; silently letting Dave know that he'd be going last. Rossi didn't care who went last, first, or walked away…all he knew was that he didn't think he could put this rose on the…he just couldn't…_not yet_.

_Isn't it like me to wait til she's leavin'  
>To know how I feel<br>I love her and I always will  
>In a second or a moment, forever can change<br>So I'm standing here prayin' for rain_

He remembers hearing a muffled shout through his apartment door. He remembers the phone ringing inside, and the buzzing from his cellphone on the tile floor. He remembers silence, and then a loud, crashing noise as his door is kicked in. _Should have given her a damn key,_ he thinks as he'd heard her calling for him. He remembers letting out a small grunt, and she's instantly sweeping down the hallway, and into the bathroom, her gun in hand. From his position he can see her face go from guarded to worried in about two seconds.

"Are you okay?"

He remembers looking at her through a haze of intense disbelief and nausea as he'd gripped the toilet he'd been sitting by for the past evening a little tighter. The cool porcelain had sent a shiver along his feverish skin, and he thought he must've looked pretty pathetic…_or just goddamn awful_…because she looked at him like he'd been a lost puppy….and is that a smirk? Dave distinctly remembers glowering at her before a sharp pain in his stomach made him lean his head against the edge of the toilet; eyes pressed closed as he willed his stomach to behave.

If there was anything he hated most in the world it was throwing up. The lack of control over almost everything from sweat glands to gag reflexes when one had the flu had quickly become the bane of his existence. Still in his dress shirt and jeans, he'd sat there for over five hours pouring his guts down the sewage. In what must've been a moment of delirium, he'd dialed her number. Not really expecting her to answer at 4 a.m., he hadn't counted on his stomach taking the sudden lurch that it had when she'd answered; leaving only indiscernible sounds for her to figure out.

Without saying anything, she holstered her gun and left the bathroom. He remembers experiencing a moment of mild panic as she disappeared, his eyes opening only to watch her leave. To his relief, she walked back into the bathroom a few minutes later carrying the down comforter from his bed and two pillows. After a few perilous moments of moving him so she could fix up a mock bed in the bathroom, he was finally situated with easy toilet access and a way to rest without having to sleep on said toilet.

"Medicine cabinet?" She asks once he'd laid his head back into the pillows.

"Kitchen." He'd slurred tiredly before finally closing his eyes. Emily had come back with a glass of water and an assortment of supplies. She'd even found a thermometer which she promptly stuck in his mouth when he had been about to argue…or complain…he doesn't exactly remember which. Dave had watched her frown when the thing beeped, thankful to have it out of his mouth as another wave of nausea overtook him and he found himself staring into the toilet once more. Seated on the edge of the tub, Emily had rubbed his back soothingly until his body uncoiled from its tense position and she helped settle him back against the pillows; drawing another blanket he hadn't seen her bring in over his shivering body.

"This sucks." He grumbled, not bothering to clear his hoarse throat.

"I know. Here," She said, handing him the glass of water and helping him to sit up. "I don't want you to get any more dehydrated than you probably are."

He accepted the cool drink and sighed after a few, small sips. "I think I love you." He'd said with what could have been the weakest, deviant smile ever.

"Shut up." She laughed, smacking his arm lightly with a roll of her eyes.

"Hey, stop hitting on me." He whined in as playful a manner as he could before sleep tugged him into oblivion.

_Wouldn't you know it the weather's perfect  
>There's not a cloud in the sky<br>It's a beautiful day for goodbye_

His hand came away from the rose slowly, as if he were leaving a part of himself behind with that one, symbolic act. They'd all taken a place surrounding Emily, each in their respective memories. _I'm so sorry, Em._ How many times could he wish for rain, for snow, or for clouds? How many times did he have to dig around in that brain of his to find that the hollow emptiness he was feeling inside didn't come from the loss of a moment but from the loss of an emotion; or rather the breaking of one?

_I'm going to miss you so much._ His jaw clenches as a lump forms in the back of his throat. He can't cry here, not now, not in front of everyone again. They don't walk away until she's lowered into the ground, until they toss dirt down the hole. It's so final, dropping the soil, that he almost gives in. He's aware of Hotch giving his shoulder a squeeze, and he shrugs away from the touch; so dangerously close to breaking down. _Never let them see you cry._ But it's too late for that sentiment.

He's already sobbed once in a cold waiting room, sitting in a chair with nothing but tragedy settling around him and his co-workers; blinded by grief. Maybe if it would rain for just a damn minute then he could cry, he could let the tears fall with the reassurance that no one would see them. Maybe he could relieve his chest of the painful weight sitting there. But there wasn't a cloud in the sky, there wasn't a storm front moving in.

It was just a beautiful day for goodbye.

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><p><em>"Grief can take care of itself, but to get the full value of joy, you must have somebody to divide it with." - Mark Twain<em>

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><p><strong>There you have it. Please leave a review if you liked or didn't like it; all forms of opinion are helpful. I'm thinking about doing one for each team member but I don't know how certain that is. What do you think?<strong>

**EDIT: sorry to update but I didn't put complete and I saw a spelling mistake that just...wouldn't stop pestering me. AND! thanks for the reviews! they mean a lot!**


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